


Pulling Strings

by Hopetohell



Category: Hellraiser (Movies), Mission: Impossible (Movies), Night Hunter (2018)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Caning, Knifeplay, Knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29131089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Walter safewords out, and then things get a bit weird. August will help.
Relationships: August walker & Walter Marshall, Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/Mike (Hellraiser)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Pulling Strings

And listen, you can almost hear the blood turning to ice in Mike’s veins, the gritted-out _red_ between Walter’s teeth stopping everything. 

(Mike, attentive, sits with his hands wrapped around his cocoa mug, looking at Walter like he hung the moon. He listens, and thank god he’s being serious about this because if nothing else there must be trust.

_What does it mean?_

_It means, sweetheart, that it doesn’t matter who says it, or when, or why. Everything stops._ )

And there’s the when but not the why; the why is the cane that falls to Walter’s side, and there’s Mike with his hands braced against the desk, stripes beading bloody on his ass and tears in his eyes and he's worried, he’s worried; Walter is home and harbor and he’s called a halt and 

_So why call me now?_

_He needs what I can’t give. I can see it in him, it’s crawling in his skin. I can’t hurt him, not like that. Not the way he needs. Not since—_

(It’s raining because it’s always fucking raining; Walter is twenty-three years old and he has no idea what he’s doing. He has a young wife at home, and hardly any scuffs on his boots. Someone is bleeding out in his arms and it is all his fault). 

_It’s been fifteen years. You need to—_

_Don’t say let it go. Don’t you dare._

_—You need to learn to live with it._

_I thought I had. But I tried, it seemed alright, and then. I had him bleeding just a little, just a drop, and I couldn’t. I— how do I explain? I almost killed someone, it doesn’t fucking matter if no one had taught me better then. I pushed too deep and she nearly bled out, and I can’t—_

_Just like that, just use those words. It burns you but you’ve gotta tell him. Or didn’t I teach you anything?_

(It’s raining, because it’s always fucking raining and August Walker has him strapped to the table. Walter Marshall is twenty five years old and he feels as though he’s dying. August checks the straps and lays a hand over his brow; it leaves red smears and the room is bright with copper; Walter pays his penance and feels his breath come easy for the first time in two years.)

_Listen. I'll meet you there. But you'll have to tell him everything, first._

_Even--_

_All of it. Remember what I taught you. If he’s everything you say, then he deserves to know._

It's raining on the lake; it's always fucking raining. Mike sits on the porch swing and watches all the world falling away; distantly, Walter scuffs his shoes and waits. This is a strange place; the air is thick with a sense of looping unrealities. He could be anyone. He could be no one, and he's not supposed to be here, but. 

_We've been invited. Wear your best. And don't ask about the scars._

_Scars?_

_If he has them still. I don't know. It changes, sometimes. He changes. He's-- I'm not sure what he is, anymore. But he can help._

_Is this about the cane?_

_Yeah. More or less. About the kind of hurt I can't give you, the kind of hurt you need._

Mike sits and watches water falling. He sits inside the memory of Walter wrapping him in a blanket on a foggy morning, water still dripping from the trees, but that can't be right

_(It's nothing to do with you, not really. It's me, and how I hurt someone. She wanted pain so badly, craved it like your lungs crave air, but I cut too deep and almost killed her. I know you need to bleed it out; I know the dream still burns through your blood. I wish I understood it; if I did then maybe I could help you in some other way. But I don't, so I can't)_

because he and Walter have never crossed the city limits together; it's seemed sometimes that there is nothing beyond unless it's endless grey fields and sky, but Walter laid his finger on the map and this house and lake appeared from nothing. 

_It's just down in the valley, right? Couldn't see it from the road, that's all._

_Kid, you of all people ought to know. It is, and it isn't. Just like your dream. And that's--_

_August?_

_In the flesh._ And that's August, alright, with his rolled sleeves and his mustache and the scars that writhe across his face; they seem almost to be shifting, moving, and none of this is right but Mike will carry on regardless, because Walter trusts this guy and so he can't be all that bad. _Let us begin._

This is Walter at the head of the table and August at the foot; Walter grimaces and holds Mike's hands, whispering it’s alright but it isn’t alright and it never will be; alright ended when the hook bit deep and it has never started up again. 

_When I fell,_ August says, the tip of his wicked knife at Mike’s sternum, _when I fell, I died. And then I didn’t. The world collapsed into two opposing points. Yes, and no. I tried to bring the two together, to find a middle ground. But it was not possible. And so._

The knife bites in; blood wells up and Mike is trying not to whine. Walter grips him tighter and _sweet boy. I know. I know._

_And so I opened myself to what hurt the most; I pulled my own strings through ichor and blood and shit, and I sewed my selves together._

_He’s not ready—_

_I know. It’s still too fresh. But we can bleed the poison from it. You know all about that, Walt._

And Mike, voice thin and gasping _: I want, I need, it hurts, but Walter— Walter— Sir— it’s. Yes. Keep going, can he please, can he please keep going, I ___

__(This is Walter at thirty-eight; he gets a fucking grip and salves Mike’s ass; he clamps down on the shivers and shakes til Mike sidles up and lays a blanket over his shoulders. Then he buries his nose in Mike’s curls and says _I’m sorry.__ _

___For what?_ _ _

___I couldn’t. And I don’t know how to tell you why._ _ _

___Then don’t. Later, when you’re ready, if you want. But can you hold me?_ )_ _

__And blood drips down over Mike’s ribs to the table to the floor; it’s a barely audible pitter-pat and he descends first into pain and then beyond; his eyes roll over white and his breath slows. And August works between breaths; he cuts the pattern and watches it sink through Mike’s flesh into his heart._ _

__( _What’s this?__ _

___Fell off a bike when I was little._ _ _

___And this?_ _ _

___Chasing someone through the park. He got a lucky shot._ _ _

___And this?_ _ _

___Building a shelf; the hammer slipped._ _ _

___And this?_ _ _

___Michael. Come on. We’re going to be late)_ _ _

____And August isn’t gentle, but he’s careful; something sparks in him when he completes the cuts, something strange like scrub willows at dusk, like northern lights, like dark seas, something old and terrible that runs down his knife and into Mike. Walter sees it; he cannot help the clench of his hands over Mike’s.  
And Mike, for his part, is breathing slow and steady; he is centering and settling._ _

__( _Do you trust me?__ _

___Absolutely.)_ _ _

__It is raining; it is always raining here. Walter stands and watches water running from the eaves; Mike is there beside him in his bandages and tiredness. August cleans his knife and packs his things; he is always moving, never settling._ _

___You know how to reach me. But try not to._ _ _

__This is Walter at thirty-eight. He rests his chin on Mike’s shoulder and breathes, and sighs, and waits to see._ _


End file.
